


Substitute

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Past Aramis/Porthos, Past Athos/Milady de Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5154962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post season two. Abandoned by their lovers and unequipped for dealing with the loneliness that ensues, Athos and Porthos take solace in each other, but the end of war and the return of Aramis bring about inevitable changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitute

Athos knew precisely _when_ this madness had started. It was, to begin with, nothing more than a straightforward case of empathy. He’d seen the look on Porthos’ face as Aramis had walked away, disappearing into the avenue of trees to begin a new life, and had never known the man seem so defeated, even during that dreadful business with his father. Not long after that, Porthos had watched from the garrison steps as he’d galloped out of the gates on a mission to be reunited with his wife. He was still there, waiting patiently, ready to support him when he returned downcast and downtrodden: a failure as always whenever his heart was concerned. 

He was also very much aware of _how_ it had happened. Too much wine, combined with the heavy burden of unhappiness and fear had resulted in them stumbling drunk into Athos’ room on the night of Constance and d’Artagnan’s wedding, enacting their own nuptials, clawing at uniforms and eager to feel something other than this all consuming rejection.

He didn’t, however, understand _why_ they’d given in to the madness so readily. Or, more to the point, why they couldn’t seem to stop, now that the floodgates had opened.

This was inherently wrong in so many ways. He was commander of his own regiment, captain of the King’s Musketeers, and on the threshold of leading his men into battle. Each time he took solace in Porthos he swore it would be the last, but there was always something that drove them back into one another’s arms and _into_ each other.

“This can’t happen again,” he muttered as Porthos led him away from the encampment to the relative privacy of the trees.

“Our last ever fuck,” agreed Porthos as he flicked open the buttons of Athos’ breeches and reached for him.

It was a cathartic pleasure to kneel for Porthos, taking the weight of his body and the width of his cock. To push into the tightness of his fist and not have to feel anything, for a few minutes, other than the blissful lightness of orgasm.

Most of the time, their sex was nothing more an urgent screw followed by a parting of the ways, but occasionally they lay together afterwards and talked of things that weren’t always confined to military strategy and battle tactics.

“We may well be winning the war, but I think the two of us are lost,” said Porthos as he fastened his breeches.

“Tell me this isn't turning into a theological dilemma for you,” said Athos.

“It’s got fuck all to do with God,” muttered Porthos. “Do you still think about Milady?”

“As much as you think about Aramis,” replied Athos and the resulting silence was deafening.

With Porthos amongst the fallen during a heavy enemy bombardment, Athos learned the reason why there should never be anything more than friendship between soldiers. He hardened his heart and treated his lover the same as he did every other wounded man, doing the rounds of the hospital tents to offer as much comfort as any commander would under the circumstances.

When Porthos became feverish and called for Aramis, none of his comrades thought any more of it other than a desire to be reunited with his dearest friend. Athos was somewhat relieved that it wasn’t _his_ name that Porthos had cried out during this bout of sickness. He’d been on the point of moving him into his own tent, for safety’s sake, but it seemed that would not be necessary.

Following on from this came a series of lengthy skirmishes, after which Athos was severely reprimanded by d’Artagnan for having a devil-may-care attitude in regard to his own well being.

“You demand that your soldiers take every precaution and yet you show none of the same concern for yourself,” said his young lieutenant.

“You have a wife back in Paris,” said Athos. “She may even be carrying your child.”

“And you have us,” said d’Artagnan, leaning forward. “Where would we be without you? Do your duty, Athos.”

They were both drunk during this conversation, but Athos wasn’t too inebriated to listen carefully and take note of the advice. The words were spoken from the heart, coming from a true friend, and he would be a worthless man if he ignored them.

Once Porthos was recovered enough to rejoin the battlelines, it brought about relief, but also a burgeoning sense of fear. Athos hoped that this war would soon be the death of him. He’d had about as much as he could take of this endless bloodthirsty torture.

“And so, boys, we live to fight another day,” said Porthos, raising his flagon in a toast, a broad smile on his face as he addressed the soldiers in the mess tent and boosted everyone’s flagging morale.

That night the two men didn’t sneak away from camp, but instead they fucked where they fell, on the groundsheet of Athos’ tent, Porthos heaving into him whilst he tangled his fingers possessively into thick, dark curls.

\---

Wars were long lasting affairs. Three years later the regiment marched victorious across Pont Neuf and through the streets of Paris in a welcome return to the garrison. When Constance threw herself, sobbing with relief, at d'Artagnan, Athos glanced around the crowd, wondering whether there would be someone here waiting for him also. There was not and he was less disappointed by this than he imagined he ought to be.

After a swift wash and brush up, he mounted a fresh horse, ready to ride to the palace for a debriefing with the Minister for War. 

“I can’t believe we’re finally home,” said Porthos in a gruff voice. “Don’t be too long, mon Capitaine. I hear there are celebrations being arranged for tonight.” He rested a palm briefly over Athos’ forearm and then smacked the horse on the hindquarters, laughing as she reared up and almost unseated her rider.

“Brute.” A smirk on his face, Athos circled him. “Make sure there’s enough wine on tap.”

“Is there ever enough for you?” chuckled Porthos, raising a hand in farewell.

Athos was in fine spirits as he rode to the palace. Damn, but it was good to be back in the capital again. With most of the regiment intact and having performed admirably against the Spanish, he had nothing but positive news for Treville. As a reward, he’d given his men two weeks leave to spend with their families and was hoping that this meeting would not scupper these plans.

Treville greeted him with the familiarity of an old friend. “It’s good to have you home, Athos,” he said with a firm shake of his hand.

“It’s good to be home,” admitted Athos. “Especially seeing d’Artagnan reunited with Constance. They can finally enjoy their honeymoon now that I’ve given them the time off to do so.”

“You’re becoming sentimental in your old age, Athos,” said a familiar voice. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Athos wheeled around to see Aramis, as handsome as ever and no longer encumbered by heavy woollen clerical robes. The embrace that he offered him was as genuine as his confusion. “I did not expect to see you here at the palace, old friend.”

“Aramis has been invaluable to us during the war,” said Treville. “He worked tirelessly behind enemy lines.”

“So this is why you refused us outright when we asked you to rejoin the regiment,” said Athos slowly as things became clear to him. That had been a miserable day for Porthos.

“I’m sorry,” said Aramis. “I hated not telling you the truth, but my hands were tied.”

“It was essential that his identity be kept secret,” explained Treville. “Without the information that he passed to us I doubt we would have ever defeated the Spanish.”

“Then you deserve every part of the hero’s welcome that is being planned back at the garrison,” said Athos, clapping an arm around Aramis’ shoulders. “Porthos will be glad to see you. We must hurry.”

“Take a horse from the stables, Aramis,” said Treville. “In fact, I’ll come with you.” Discarding his ministerial gown, he strode out of the palace with the other two following in his wake.

Athos did not find the return journey anywhere near as pleasant. His chest was leaden, his brain sluggish, and though he didn’t harbour the slightest resentment toward Aramis, he was struggling to come to terms with this sudden change in circumstances. The only solace he could find in the situation was the thought of how overjoyed Porthos would be when he found out.

“You’re quiet,” said Aramis, as they rode side by side.

“Morose is my usual state of being, remember?” Athos smiled at his friend. It _was_ good to have him back, even if it would inevitably turn out to be at the expense of other things. “But I’m looking forward to seeing everyone together again.” He raised his eyes heavenward. “And safe.”

“Command has taken its toll on you, I think,” said Aramis.

“It has in some ways,” agreed Athos. “But I’ve had d'Artagnan and Porthos to counsel me when things were difficult. And also you working on our behalf behind the scenes, although I was not privy to that information at the time.”

“Your very own guardian angel,” laughed Aramis.

“Could there ever be anyone better equipped for the job?” said Athos amiably and they rode on in companionable silence.

“My boy has grown so much,” said Aramis, after a while. “I have seen a little of him since I’ve been back and he is a joy.”

Athos’ chest grew heavier still. “He is not yours and you must stop thinking of him as such,” he said under his breath. “He’s out of bounds as far as you are concerned.”

“I realise this, but it’s not easy to switch off one’s feelings.” Aramis shielded his eyes and peered ahead as the garrison gates opened to allow them entrance. “Look! Porthos is here to greet us,” he said, spurring his horse on and then dismounting in mid-canter with as much elan as ever. “Porthos, my dear man. Were you always this tall? Are you so surprised to see me that you’ve lost your voice?”

“Aramis! I don’t bloody believe it. Is it really you?”

Athos watched them embrace and then stepped away from the happy reunion, keeping himself occupied by collecting the horses and returning them to the stables. 

“Not a job for the captain,” said Jacques as he took the reins from him and led the visiting animals to fresh stalls for the night. 

Athos would’ve been happy to play groomsman all evening, but the stable lad would not contemplate it and instead ushered him back out to the courtyard where a feast fit for royalty was being served from the cookhouse.

Filling a flagon with wine he took the steps up to the balcony, leaning on the bannister rail and watching over his men.

“I have to admit it’s strange no longer to be in this position,” said Treville.

Athos turned to look at his former commander. “I’d prefer it if you were,” he replied with honesty. “The job’s all yours if you want it.”

“Not happening, Athos. You’ve proved that my faith in you was well founded,” said Treville. “Although it sounds as if you’re still lacking some of your own.”

“I have not been as negligent in command as I suspected I might be,” said Athos slowly as he considered the matter. “But that does not mean I am well suited to it.”

“In your opinion,” replied Treville. “The regiment would have a very different one, I’m sure.”

Athos stared into the dark contents of his tankard. “If not this,” he said taking a swig. “Then there is invariably something I use to shelter myself from this world.”

“As do all men,” said Treville, raising his own flagon. “To the human condition.”

Athos drank in response, but his heart was not in it. No one could understand the depths of his sin and, alongside it, the extent of his foolishness.

“Come and eat,” insisted Treville.

“I don’t recall ever seeing you dine with us soldiers.” Athos raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“We’d never been victorious in war when I was in command,” replied Treville. “Your Musketeers wish to celebrate with you.”

“I’ll join them soon,” said Athos. “But first I need to familiarise myself with this place.”

Treville looked at him curiously for a moment and then tipped his head in acquiescence. “Not too long though, Captain,” he said as he headed for the stairs. “You’re wanted below.”

From his vantage point up on the walkway, Athos could see how happy Porthos was to have Aramis back. It was heartwarming but at the same time soul destroying, and he wondered how he could have allowed his feelings to develop into something so deep. The pit, however, was not bottomless. The waters down here were unsullied and contained another harsh lesson in reality. Would he ever learn to leave matters of the heart alone? His mind now made up, he decided against joining his friends tonight. Instead he would leave them to enjoy themselves and get reacquainted.

\---

His rooms in the small boarding house on Rue Ferou were cold and unappealing. Athos was surprised that his landlady hadn’t simply taken his rent and, at the same time, re-let the place to a tenant who might actually choose to live here, but then she was a slovenly housekeeper at best and probably preferred the option of easy money and light work.

Apparently pleased to see him, the woman brought up clean sheets, firewood and candles and even attempted to supply him with food for the evening. He declined the meal but accepted her offer of a bottle of wine, leaning wearily on the wall and watching as she made up the bed and then lit the fire.

“Soon have you comfortable, Captain,” she said. She might have been pretty once, before all her teeth had turned black with rot.

“Thank you,” said Athos, grateful to her, diseased mouth or not, for accommodating him at such short notice.

“I’ll fetch that bottle and then leave you in peace for the evening, sir.” Bobbing her head, she scurried away down the stairs like a scrawny little mouse.

Truthfully, Athos had forgotten how spartan these rooms were, with no furniture to speak of except for the one broken chair and a rickety old table. He lay on the bed, the straw from the palliasse poking through thin sheets and digging into his back. He should have kept his leather jerkin on as armour.

“Leave it and go,” he said dispiritedly when the door opened once more.

“And there was I thinking I’d pour us a glass each,” said a booming voice. “I persuaded your landlady into giving us two bottles for the night, seeing as we have a lot of talking to get done and might need some lubrication to start us off.”

Athos didn’t need to open his eyes to see the grin on that face, and couldn’t help but smirk in response. They’d required an awful lot of lubricant recently. 

“Now sit up and budge up,” said Porthos. “I’m not camping on the damn floor.”

Athos did as he was told and then glanced sideways at Porthos. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“Stupid question.” Porthos handed him a glass of claret. “What we need to work out is what _you’re_ doing here rather than me.”

“I’d have thought that was blatantly obvious,” said Athos, tossing down the wine in a single gulp. “Aramis is back.”

“I realise that,” said Porthos. “I’ve been talking to him for hours. He’s told me all about his secret spy missions and exciting adventures across the Spanish border.”

“He’s back, Porthos,” said Athos, hanging his head. “And so are are you.”

“And so are you,” said Porthos, topping up both their glasses. “At least I thought you were until I went to your quarters and discovered that you were missing.” He grinned. “Without any hint of action.”

“I thought my presence might make things awkward for you and Aramis to reconnect.”

Porthos sighed. “And once again you’re talking about Aramis. Anyone would think you were infatuated with the man.”

“Porthos, you love him.” Athos failed to suppress a sigh. “You always have.”

“Were you hoping to see Milady waving her kerchief in welcome today?” asked Porthos.

“No,” said Athos slowly. “But then she’s not been my wife for many years. I _had_ thought there might be a chance for us to be reconciled, but she chose not to wait for me, as she had promised she would, and I knew then that I’d made a mistake.”

Porthos folded his arms. “Things were much less complicated between Aramis and me. Yeah, I admit I was once foolish enough to think I was in love with him, but he never pretended to return those feelings and I’m not certain I ever told him of my own. How could I compete with that endless string of lovers, especially when it included the cardinal’s girlfriend and the dauphin’s nanny, and the queen, for god’s sake? That man lives for danger far more than he does for romance. No wonder he had so much fun being a spy.”

“So you weren’t happy to see him then?” Athos needed to fully understand what Porthos was trying to tell him.

“Of course I was happy, and I’m more than happy to have him back in our lives,” said Porthos patiently. “As pleased as I would be to see any brother after years apart, but you and me, we’re good together and I’m not about to let anything ruin that. We may have started out wrong, but we’re something bloody marvellous now. You know that.” Resting his hand on Athos’ cheek, he encouraged him to make eye contact. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“I do.” Athos smiled. “At least, I’ve been hoping so.”

“Well, stop hoping and start getting your kit off whilst I lock the door,” growled Porthos. “We have a lot to prove tonight, so we’d better get on with it before we both fall asleep from exhaustion.”

“You know what I love most about you?” said Athos as he stripped down to naked in front of the fire. “You have such a romantic way with words.”

“Don’t I just,” grinned Porthos, ripping off his own clothes at breakneck speed. “Now come here and let me get my cock inside you, where it belongs.”

 

\---end


End file.
